


Violins, Bad Coffee, and Big Backpacks

by otfuckingp



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Flying, Harry Plays Violin, Harry plays piano, Louis barely knows what a violin is, M/M, Meet-Cute, businessman!Louis, carry-ons, lots of anger, louis is very into this, musician!harry, oh my god so much anger, orchestra stuff, planes, viola jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otfuckingp/pseuds/otfuckingp
Summary: Of course, the universe is not on Louis’ side, nor on the side of his mental health.  Just as he starts to think they might get away with this empty seat -- yes, they. He and Instrument Man are in this together, a united front against the forces of any more people-- one more person steps onto the plane. He bypasses the first fifteen rows without so much as a falter, but the fact that he slows around 17 gives Louis pause. There aren’t many empty seats in this section... Surely not. Surely the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to do this to him.And then there’s another body landing in the seat next to Instrument Man. Well, “landing” might be too polite. Crashing, is more like it. Within the first ten seconds, he’s elbowed instrument Man in the side, dropped something on the floor, and nearly tripped a stewardess with the exuberant flailing of his legs. All in all, completely shattering the tentative silence in row 21 DEF. Fuck.//Harry and Louis meet on a plane. Louis is not impressed, until he is.





	Violins, Bad Coffee, and Big Backpacks

**Author's Note:**

> his fic was written as part of an ongoing challenge. We each select random numbers and are given a specific emotion from the book 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names. To read the other fics written in this challenge, click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/ShortFic_Challenge_For_Which_There_Is_No_Name/works), or you can find the masterpost on tumblr [here](http://lululawrence.tumblr.com/post/159679804243/1000-feelings-for-which-there-are-no-names-prompt)
> 
> Feeling 900: The hatred of large men with large carry-ons.

Louis Tomlinson really really hates flying. He hates every aspect of it, from being stuck in a metal tube thousands of feet in the air, to the inevitable screaming child and the ceaseless humming of the engines making him feel like hes stuck inside a washing machine or something. Its always impossible to sleep on flights. That mood lighting they've started introducing, and the fact that they're flying in the dark? Useless. So, wait. Maybe he just really hates noise. 

While that's definitely part of it, its not really all; he despises the full-body grimy feeling you get just by passing into an airport, like if you don't get away from all these people right this second you'll never be clean again. So yeah he kind of hates people as well, which never bodes well for his ability to sit in an enclosed space with them for extended periods of time. He's already small, he doesn't need to be reminded of it by being crowded in against a window or an armrest just because the person next to him is bigger and therefore requires some of Louis' space as his own. Ugh. People. This is where business class comes in; you can just sit in your own space, one seat per aisle so none of that climbing over someone and therefore feeling like the biggest nuisance known to man, and be.

Nobody bothers you unless they're bringing you food and alcohol, and while the grimy-airplane feeling and the noise are still inevitable, it somehow feels less terrible when you're not elbow-to elbow with some random person and listening to the piercing shriek of the child two rows back, chair being kicked by the huffy teenager who wont listen to you.

He's speaking from experience, of course. He still shudders when he thinks of that horrendous flight last year to visit Lottie all the way out in Denver. Fuck, that'd been a long flight. Economy. He'd been stuck in the middle seat, without either the comfort of a window to lean against or an aisle to shove his feet into. The people on either side of him had taken each armrest, leaving him marooned in the middle, trying his damnedest to not be annoying. This was in vain, clearly, as every other passenger near him had been hellbent on ruining his life. The child behind him had taken his shoes off (horrible stench, really) and dug his knees into the back of Louis' chair slumped low. The man in front of him had reclined his seat back instantly and left it there for the duration of the 13 hour flight, leaving Louis to feel vaguely claustrophobic for the rest of the flight. That tight feeling in your chest, like a bubble that's going to burst from the inside out? Unpleasant. Not something he wants to repeat.

Which is why Louis is positively seething now, muttering obscenities under his breath from between gritted teeth as he inches his way down the crowded aisle. Everything is too close, to hot, too tight, itchy. He kind of wants to run screaming from the plane and say fuck it. No business meeting can be this important, surely. _Fucking double booking. fucking people. fucking airplanes. fuck everything._ Surely he can afford to wait for the next flight. The next flight, with a cushy available business seat that belongs to him. He could just chill in the lounge, put his bags down, fucking breathe for a little while and then hop a flight in comfort. Surely this is a better plan. (It isn't, he can't afford to miss his connection. He's already checked. Twice. But it helps his sanity to pretend that that's what he intends to do, as opposed to thinly veiled cursing as the toddler in front of him trips and stumbles into him a little). His carry-ons (plural, since he didn't have time to check one of them and is now going to be forced to pay the fee for an extra bag, fuck this airline, seriously) bang against his leg and make him feel even more obtrusive, like just by walking he's bothering everyone. He awkwardly lifts one slightly above his head, maneuvering basically sideways down the aisle to hit as few people as possible. He can't help the fiery churning in his gut when he has to walk right through the rows of business seats, men and women and even a few lucky (probably bratty) children getting comfortable and looking thoroughly unbothered by this whole flying business. Pun intended. That should be him, he thinks. No, knows. He booked a fucking business seat, paid for it and had everything sorted. _Fuck everything._

He's unsure how many times he's thought that phrase in the last hour, but it's definitely more than is reasonable. Louis, however, is not in the mood to be reasonable. Therefore, he can think whatever the fuck he wants, thanks very much.

He arrives at his row, thankfully empty so he doesn't have to subject his poor seat mates to his wrath just yet. It takes a solid ten seconds of internal screaming before he can remind himself that the people sitting next to him have no control and therefore no impact on his foul mood. It's a nice, mature thought. Which is why it has very little impact on him at all. Taking a deep breath, he surveys the space and is reminded of the ridiculous size disparity between business and economy. He is by no means a large person (thank god) but even he is skeptical about his odds of fitting comfortably in that space. It's ridiculous, is what it is. The sight of it sets him off all over again, and the last thirty seconds of reminding himself to not be an ass to his seat mates are wasted.

Muttering angrily under his breath, he tears his book from his bag, yanks the zipper closed, and throws it in the bin. The mercifully empty storage bin, because Louis is _fucked_ before he's willing to sacrifice more foot room.  The only thing worse than being forced to rub shoulders with some random while in coach would be to rub shoulders with some random in coach while his legs are tucked up to his chin because of a fucking carry on he couldn't stow. Amid curses, he situates himself up against the window, buckles the belt, and sets in for some reading (and observing his fellow passengers while praying the big ones don't have to be sat next to him). This flight is nine hours, okay, he doesn't want to be flattened uncomfortably against a window if he can help it. He also doesn't want to deal with the persistent feeling of being a bother whenever he has to stand up. That's more unavoidable, though. Silently, he hopes for one of the quiet student-types to sit down next to him, someone equally as small as him with a demeanor to match. For each 6-foot man that passes row 21 with a bulging backpack, Louis breathes a sigh of relief. The hot ones are slightly more of a loss, as Louis thinks he could probably handle 9 hours in close proximity to an attractive stranger. Might even be willing to settle for a little less leg room for the privilege. He winces as soon as he realizes that he's being creepy. That--he's not--he not like that _,_ okay? He'd prefer to a avoid as many gay stereotypes as possible, thank you very much. He can appreciate a view, is all.

Louis' just idly admiring the man walking past him (tall, dark hair, deep eyes and skyscraper-high cheekbones, probably one of those model types) when Louis sees him. He's standing a few rows back, and between they _loud_ yellow shirt and....well just about everything else, he has Louis' attention. The man is tall, dare he say willowy, with deep green (emerald?) eyes and shoulder-length brown curls. He seems friendly enough, smiling gently down at some small child climbing into her seat in front of him. She's just a tad slow, climbing vertically over the armrest instead of around the chair and leaving her bag in the aisle while she accomplishes this. _He's got remarkable patience,_ Louis thinks, as if that were him he'd probably already be exasperatedly rolling his eyes and tapping his foot. The man just waits patiently, and once the girl is seated fully, he picks up her little pink backpack and gently hands it to her. She beams at him, and he returns the grin. This is a development. _Oh, okay. Dimples._ That's uh. A fact. A rather distracting fact, truth be told. But then the man straightens up and starts counting the row numbers overhead, and Louis' stomach drops. Inexplicably, he knows what's coming. He watches the man's eyes skirt up and down the number plates, counting under his breath, and Louis imagines he's counting down the seconds till his death. Dramatic? Lou has never been anything but.

The other man's eyes come to rest on the plate right above Louis' head, and Lou sees a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. _Of course._ He and....well seen it coming, but still. Louis is incensed, gritting his teeth and fingers clenched tight around the pages of his book. Vaguely, he's aware that his hands are shaking. The universe couldn't possibly give him a break, could it? The man is pushing 6 feet, and that alone might be okay given how slim he is--he doesn't look too likely to crowd Louis in. It would all be totally fine. Louis would be totally fine sharing a space with this guy, Bambi-esque legs and all. But of course he failed to notice the strap over the guy's shoulder, partially obscured by that hair. He turns slightly, and _fuck._

Of course the man would have to be carrying an instrument case, the sort of thing one does not want to get damaged in transit. Something easily stowable if the bin weren't already full of Lou's own things. Well, that isn't his fucking fault, Instrument Guy can take it up with the fucker who double booked his seat if it's that much of an issue. Taking a deep breath in through his nose, Louis slumps back in his seat, book pressed over his forehead like it might offer some form of protection. Fucking hell. There's no room in the overheads for that, it's going to have to go down on the floor. Which, if he knows anything about instruments (admittedly, no, but still) is not going to go over well with the owner. Probably going to take up an obnoxious amount of space just to make sure the precious thing doesn't get jostled.

Slowly lowering his book just a fraction, Louis peers at the man. Irritated, suspicious. He doesn't know a lot about music but he assumes form the size and shape of the case its one of those string instruments--a violin or a viola, who cares about the difference? It, like its owner, is long and slim, not overtly obtrusive but just different enough to stand out among the sea of backpacks and briefcases. the owner of the violin case and the man who's about to cause Louis anguish for the next 9 hours is fast approaching, cutting his mental assessments and internal monologue short. His cheerful smile is disarming; who the fuck looks this happy to be on an airplane, crowded next to strangers? Louis certainly fucking isn't. He's certainly fucking not amused. He's also _not, definitely not_ at all fascinated by the man's endless legs. Its only idle curiosity really (how on earth is he going to fold all of that and that case into the tiny amount of foot room they get?) And Louis is so distracted by this predicament and definitely not staring at Instrument Guy's legs that he's actually caught off guard when a body slides into the seat next to him. He jolts, almost dropping his book in the haste to remove it from his face.

The man offers up a friendly smile, neither prying nor obtrusive. He lifts his case and looks at Louis almost...apologetically? Well, he should, so. As the man begins sorting out his legs-case-foot room predicament, Louis takes the opportunity to take stock of the situation. there are still 15 minutes left of boarding. After that, he's going to be stuck thousands of feet in the air, which he hates, crowded in against the window, which he hates, sharing breathing space with a man who is much taller and more attractive than one person has any right to be, for 9 hours, give or take. Which....maybe isn't too bad.

15 minutes left of boarding. The stream of passengers wandering down the aisle has slowed to a steady trickle; there are only a few stragglers sliding into emptied seats and elbowing their way around the already seated passengers with the sense to fucking show up on time. Louis is annoyed on behalf of every set of people who have to stand to let someone at the window seat. For each extra bag that gets more squished as someone jams a last-minute carry-on into the overhead bin, Louis has to take a deep breath. Remind himself that not all battles are his battles.

This doesn’t stop him from leaning over and going “some people just have no respect for space. Common courtesy, and all that.” or something to that effect. At least twice. Each time, he’s met with a vague hum that might be agreement, might be noncommittal “please leave me alone”. Okay, so he’s not chatty. Lou can handle that.

All he can do now is hope that the seat next to Instrument Man stays empty. If it does, he might just make it out of this alive. And mentally intact.

Of course, the universe is not on Louis’ side, nor on the side of his mental health.  Just as he starts to think they might get away with this empty seat -- yes, they. He  and Instrument Man are in this together, a united front against the forces of any more people-- one more person steps onto the plane. He bypasses the first fifteen rows without so much as a falter, but the fact that he slows around 17 gives Louis pause. T _here aren’t many empty seats in this section._.. Surely not. Surely the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to do this to him.

And then there’s another body landing in the seat next to Instrument Man. Well, “landing” might be too polite. Crashing, is more like it. Within the first ten seconds, he’s elbowed Instrument Man in the side, dropped something on the floor, and nearly tripped a stewardess with the exuberant flailing of his legs. All in all, completely shattering the tentative silence in row 21 DEF. _Fuck._

Louis is nothing short of appalled. This guy has the nerve to show up literal minutes before they’re supposed to push back, and yet looks affronted that there’s no space in the overheads. He’s also got some fucking balls, carrying a backpack like that on what is technically public transit. Seriously, Lou thinks that if he were to curl his knees up, he might fit into the bag. Is this guy a survivalist? Who the fuck needs that much stuff? It’s frankly arrogant, is what it is. Louis has half a mind to reach over and slap Survivalist Guy around the head. He probably would if it weren’t for the body in his way.

The body which is, incidentally, leaning back Louis’ way. Too engrossed in the spectacle unfolding one seat over to notice he’s leaned quite far into Instrument Guy’s space, he barely has time to jerk his head backwards and avoid a mouthful of curls. Then the guy is murmuring in his ear, his low voice barely audible over the general bustle of a full airplane, “why the hell would you bring something that huge on a plane?” This question is accompanied by an unsubtle jerk of the head towards Survivalist Guy, who is now prowling the aisles looking for an empty storage bin. 

Louis has to actually turn to face the guy. _Is he serious? Is he actually--_ and he is. His face, while pretty, is unsmiling and exasperated. It takes Louis several seconds to compose even an idea of a response. He’s too busy fighting his instinct to just fucking rip into this dude, innocent demeanor and all. The thing is, he’s not _wrong._ Survivalist Guy is obviously a terrible person, and it would be quite simple to just agree, and by glossing over Instrument Guy’s own space-occupation issue, make a friend out of him. Lou can imagine a worse way to spend nine hours than entertaining a little hypocrisy in favor of having an ally.

He’s torn. Does he want the satisfaction of tearing into this guy and watching him realize his hypocrisy, or does he want camaraderie born out of collectively ripping into someone else? It’s a tough choice.

He settles on neither. Goes for the ol' reliable “Do you even realize how many dick jokes I’m restraining right now?” Dick jokes--or rather, the allusion to them--are always a great Can I Be Friends With This Person litmus test.

Instrument Guy passes with flying colours, letting out an ungainly snort. And then he’s turning to face Louis with a thousand-watt grin on. And, oh. Well. That’s a development. _Dimplesgreendimpleslegs_ _god,_ Louis really has to stop getting distracted by this guy if he’s going to yell at him. “What, really? When I gave you such a mundane starting point? Yeah, that’s definitely on me, mate.” His voice is slow, methodical, and dripping with sarcasm. Oh, Louis likes that.

That is not a thought he’s supposed to be having. It sits uncomfortably with him, pressing unhappily against the anger bubbling in his gut. So he ignores it (for now), tamps down the anger in favour of more snark. It seems he's going with allyship after all. 

He must sit for too long, because the next thing he registers is the man leaning away, curls receding from his line of vision. _No,_ _don't_ _,_ is his first thought, which just makes the irritation flare up again. But whatever. He can focus on that when Instrument Guy isn’t talking, and leaning back in his seat, decidedly away from Louis. “Harry Styles.”

It sounds like a flat statement, and for a second Louis is too distracted fighting himself about that _don't_ thought to even register it. He's halfway to turning away and muttering to himself about pretty boys being hypocrites when he realizes, stutters, and sputters out "Oh! Louis. Louis Tomlinson."

The confusion on his face must show, because Harry starts giggling. Like, this isn't a manly chuckle we're talking about here, it's an honest-to-god giggle like Louis would expect out of that girl with the pink backpack. Once again he nearly gets lost in himself enough to miss Harry's next sentence, which would be a damn shame since it's kind of hilarious. "And how do you take your martinis, Mr. Tomlinson " He's teasing, that much is certain. It's also just a touch familiar for people who've exchanged two sentences, but whatever. His eyebrow slides up, and the look in his eyes says _I'm fucking funny._ Louis is inclined to agree. Goddammit. 

He realizes Harry is waiting for a reaction. "Shit, I guess I do sound a tad standoffish, sorry mate. I promise I'm not actually a spy or some shit."

"Well, between the suit and the fucking death glare you were handing out earlier, it's a little hard to tell." _Observant little thing, isn't he?_

"Ah, so you noticed." Louis deliberately keeps his tone controlled, flat. Nice and noncommittal.

Harry snorts. "Mate, I think _everyone_  noticed. Kind of hard to miss the dude shooting daggers at you just for walking by."

Louis is saved from having to respond by Survivalist Guy. He storms down the aisle, backpack still in tow, and Louis can already tell this is going to be ugly. His brow is knit, harsh lines carved between his eyebrows and over stormy eyes. His mouth is tugged down, jaw set squarely and obstinately. There's something a little too brutish about his gait; he positions everything outwards, demanding space from everyone around him. _Entitled._ Sure enough, he swings (literally swings, just lifts one foot and lets gravity spin him downwards) into his chair, torso slipping sideways and elbow slamming into Harry's side. Louis winces in sympathy; that looked like it _hurt._ Harry, bless him, seems too shy or too non-combative to say anything, even when Survivalist Guy turns to scowl at him, as if Harry can somehow be blamed for existing. 

Louis starts wondering why the _bless him_ slipped into that last thought. 

Harry leans over once more, and this time Louis has the presence of mind to not only anticipate the curls, but avoid them. "Well that was hardly polite," He remarks drily. Louis can _hear_ the painlacing his voice, but he maintains a calm veneer. Louis wonders why. _I'd have blown my fucking top already._  

 _Speaking of,_ "No-ooo," He draws the word out, sliding from serious to acerbic real quick. "How could someone _possibly stand_ someone invading their space by appearing with a carry-on potentially larger than them? You poor thing." He punctuates this with a pointed look at the oblong case between Harry's legs. And then immediately regrets it; there are so many different ways a look like that could have been interpreted. Even so, he's sure to lay the sarcasm on extra thick, just to be sure Harry gets it. _This is friendly I'm teasing you I'm not actually pissed don't take it the wrong way..._ His tone falls somewhere between incredulous and goading, willing Harry to rise to the bait. An icy arch of his eyebrow seals the deal. 

Harry seems to cycle through a lot of different emotions in a few seconds. It's rather entertaining, watching his face. He's just so expressive. He goes from shocked to confused to embarrassed to amused in the span of a few seconds. It's just long enough for Louis to watch spots of colour appear on his cheeks and start traveling down towards his collar. Louis is glad he went for the camaraderie route; now he doesn't have to be mad at himself for the staring. Well, _no,_ he can still be annoyed. Camaraderie notwithstanding, randomly staring at pretty boys for extended periods of time is frowned upon. Not socially acceptable and all that. _He's not creepy, damn it._

 _Wait, so Harry's_ pretty _now?_

Louis would like to say, for the record, that he's glad Harry has a sense of humour. His only response to Louis' mini-tirade? A cheeky grin and "did you just insinuate you're the size of my violin?"

It takes approximately two seconds for them both to burst out laughing. Between fits and starts, Louis manages to gasp out "If you can't.......laugh at.....yourself.....who are you gonna laugh at?" This sets Harry off all over again, Louis grinning quietly to himself as he does. Not even ten minutes together and Harry's already got him calmer than he's ever been on a flight _and_ making a complete tit of himself in public. Amazing. 

When Harry finally calms down (which takes an inordinate amount of time, really, Louis has said much funnier things in his time). Louis says "So it's a violin, then."

Harry looks perplexed. "What else could it have been?"

"Uh, I don't know a lot about instruments, mate. But, like, a violin and a viola look pretty similar." Harry goes from perplexed to positively scandalized, mouth dropping open and eyebrows knitting together. 

"A viola?!" If Louis didn't know any better he's think Harry'd just heard something ridiculously offensive. He's still being playful, that much is clear, but it's also clear he's passionate about this. 

He cracks a smile, sucking his teeth. "Oops, seem to have hit a nerve." He raises his hands, placating. "Touchy."

  
They're interrupted by a flight attendant before Harry can frame a response; his mouth freezes open for a second before his smile morphs from teasing to genuine while he thanks the attendant. Survivalist is not nearly so accommodating,  letting out a long-suffering sigh at the great hardship of being asked to buckle his seat belt. In all fairness,  Louis goes to plug in his headphones (he can't stand the noise of an airplane and will spend as much time ignoring it as possible). By the time he looks back up, Harry is bust fiddling with his violin case, a little concentrated frown wrinkling his forehead. 

  
Louis starts to wonder just why he's so focused on Harry's expressions. It's a bit of a fixation, that. He decides it's best to leave Harry to his violin, not wanting to make another blunder with his obvious lack of music knowledge. (Not yet, anyway). 

* * *

Louis forgot how fucking _boring_ this flight is. The main problem is that, logistically, sleeping is a really bad idea. The flight takes off at about 6am New York time, meaning that if he sleeps during he'll be throwing his body out of whack for the next few days. Nobody in New York is sleeping from 7am to 2pm  he's gonna fuck himself over. (This is a lesson learned the hard way). Somehow, the cabin crew doesn't seem to have understood this; they shut all the window shades and dim the lights, thus giving everyone a warm and dark environment perfect for passing out in. Louis might strangle someone; he's got to spend the rest of the day fighting himself to stay awake, which inevitably means chugging coffee, which makes him cranky. Coffee is an abominable beverage. This is on top of a poor night's rest and a shitty start to the morning. _Great._

  
The first few hours pass relatively painlessly; there's a decent selection of movies to watch, he has his phone, and he burns a couple minutes staring out the window before the vertigo kicks in. It remains less comfortable than business, naturally. And by that Louis means it's incredibly cramped, but he's trying to put on a brave face. Once Survivor Guy is all settled, Louis almost pities him. His massive bag is down by his feet, leaving him no room to move forwards or backwards and his knees are jutted slightly up towards his chin. _It's gotta be uncomfortable like that,_ he thinks, but then he sees the way Survivor Guy's elbow is still firmly jammed into Harry's side, and loses his sympathy. 

  
Harry, for his part, is doing his absolute best to be unobtrusive. Louis is frankly impressed, and a little contrite when he remembers his earlier anger. Clearly he was mad at the wrong massive guy; Harry's all fluff, harmless and so skinny he couldn't be much of a bother even if he tried. As it is, he stays so still Louis' only clue he isn't asleep is the occasional turn of a page as he reads. He supposes this is compensation for the fact that he's leaning so far to the right to avoid Survivalist Guy that he's nearly breathing down Louis' neck. it's fine though. Really. just peachy. Harry'd tried to apologize when he'd first started leaning closer to Louis, but he wasn't having it. He'd held up a hand and shook his head. that was that. When Harry still wasn't convinced, he'd offered a soft smile and tried, "It's fine, Haz. Really."

"Haz?" 

"Indeed. Or would you prefer Harold?" That'd shocked a laugh out of him, and seemingly convinced him to relax a little more. _Perfect._ Louis'd known it would work. 

"Haz is better." And with that the case was closed, Harry settling back (more or less) against Louis' side. Louis hoped he wasn't too offended when he re positioned more against the windows. It was more comfortable like that, really. And....Harry's curls were starting to block his view. It was annoying. Also, there's probably some rule about personal space in regards to virtual strangers, and Louis had been pretty sure that was crossing a line. Comfortable though it was. 

Now, Louis is suffering through listening to Survivalist Guy being an absolute dick to an attendant, asking for 5000 little things per second, huffing when she doesn't comply immediately. It's gross. It's her fucking job to make sure everyone on the plane is comfortable, not just cater to his every whim for 9 hours straight. 

Louis voices as much to Harry, who's doing that noncommittal-humming thing again. It's annoying. Louis tells him so. Harry hums again, turns another page. Louis takes to poking him in the cheek. Right where that dimple would go. It's a success; after a moment or two the dimple appears, Louis' finger sinking right into it. He refrains from asking how deep the dimple goes, but only just barely. That's probably crossing the personal-space line. (It makes sense).

Instead he opens his mouth to complain about Survivalist guy's dickish tendencies. Just as Survivalist calls the attendant a _bitch_ under his breath. He freezes. Harry does too; Louis feels him stiffen, muscles going rigid, jaw flexing. Louis literally doesn't know what to say or how to articulate the desire to fucking set fire to that asshole that's suddenly filling him. Harry seems to have it covered, though. Quiet, gentle Harry who's so concerned about taking up any of Louis' space and too polite to tell Survivalist Asshole to stop elbowing him, turns to his left and says quite succinctly, "Dude, shut the fuck up." His voice is hard, brooks no argument, but dares him to _just fucking try it, pal._ He seems ten feet tall in this moment. 

Survivalist Guy's mouth drops open. Louis is impressed; this might be the first time he's shut up this whole flight. Harry doesn't even give him a second glance before turning to Louis and saying, rather loudly "Some people just don't seem to know how flying works, hm?" It's so....petty, Louis is impressed. 

He drops his voice, not hoping to be overheard like Haz apparently was. "Petty. I like you more and more, Curly." 

Harry's mouth quirks up at the comment and _Louis has got to stop noticing his mouth._ "Well, it just isn't _done._ Even being rude aside, the backpack! It's like those people who bring suitcases on the tube at rush hour; it just isn't _done!"_

Louis is inclined to agree. Also, he follows Harry's lead and completely ignores whether or not Survivalist Guy is listening. It's liberating and vindictive. A perfect outlet for all that frustration he'd been storing since the double-booking incident. Still, it's worth it to bring the sass back:  "You're not much fucking better!"

"Yes but you like me, so." It's true; Louis does not want to murder Haz like he usually does to those people on the tube. But Haz has redeeming qualities, unlike them.

"Cheeky."

"But not wrong." Louis doesn't deign that with a reply. He casts about for something else entirely, trying to think of a less incriminating topic. 

"You mentioned the tube? A Londoner, then?"

Harry grins, "How many blokes do you meet who have English accents but aren't from England? Especially on flights out of London?"

"I try not to judge. You'd be surprised at the characters I meet." Not wanting to elaborate on the terrible chaos that is his work life, he presses, "So, London?" Louis does his level best to keep the hope from creeping into his tone. He doesn't do a very good job. Harry;s totally on to him; he's got that knowing look.

"Not originally, but I live in London now, yeah. You?"

"Yeah, me too. Not from London originally, further North. Doncaster.  I, uh," he takes a deep breath, scrubs his hand through his hair, "moved for work. Business management. Supremely boring shit, but it pays the bills alright, so." He's doing that thing again, he can hear it. He's closing up when someone asks about home, shortening his sentences so he doesn't have to say too much. He thanks his lucky stars Harry doesn't know him well enough yet to call him out on it like Liam might. 

"Oh wow," Harry is saying, "I wasn't too far from there, I think. My geography's a bit shit, so I might be wrong. Cheshire? It was a little town up there, Holmes Chapel. Everyone knew everyone and you couldn't get away with anything. I loved it, though. It was a bit of a culture shock, moving to massive metropolitan London after that."

Louis chuckles low in his throat. "I feel you, mate." What he doesn't mention is how amazing that was, getting away from that little town where everyone knew all his secrets, and never let him get away with it. He doesn't mention the sense of lightness, of absolute freedom that came with the new start. Instead he asks "So what do you do?" 

Harry angles an eyebrow up, glancing at the violin that's still positioned between his legs. "Take a wild guess." Though dripping with sarcasm, Louis hears a harder edge in his voice, as if daring him to say something negative. Louis does not bite this time, he goes for self deprecating instead. 

"I already told you, I know fuck-all about music. I won't embarrass us both with my shoddy attempts to explain something i don't know." 

That earns him another laugh. "Wouldn't want a repeat of the viola incident, now would we?"

"No, indeed."

So Harry talks, and Louis listens. It's quite nice not to be the loud one for once. He doesn't have to pretend to have all the answers like he would in a meeting. He doesn't have to convince anyone of anything (except convince Harry that he's a likable person, but that;s neither here nor there). Instead, he returns a little bit to the person he was in uni  he randomly interjects with witty things he's thought of, makes people (Harry) laugh, and generally enjoys himself a lot. He's not really sure if it's the jet lag that;s making him lose his inhibitions, or the fact that the person he's talking to has no idea what he's usually like, or the fact that it's Harry. A combination of the three, probably. (That's an illicit thought which will be blamed on jet lag and exhaustion). Idle wondering also leads him to question whether or not Harry is the sort of person he might have been if practicality had lost to dreams. Harry seems to Louis like he's made of cotton candy; fluffy and soft and sweet. He's so intensely happy and proud of his life, and Louis can hear it in that little defensive edge that creeps up when he talks about music. It seems Harry, like Louis faced some criticism over his life choices.

It seems Harry, unlike Louis, did not fold because of said criticism. And he's all the better for it. 

Apparently, Harry is a first violinist (apparently better than the second violins, and _always be_ tter than the violas no matter what number the viola has) in the LPO  Louis has no idea what the LPO is, so Harry fills him in. It's not the LSO, which Louis _has_ heard of. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he thought Harry'd said LSO; the guy is 22 (that's another new fact learned, go Louis!) and definitely, definitely too young to be working in the premier orchestra in the country. That's his goal someday, though. 

Apparently, Harry's always loved music. He tells this story through red cheeks and teary laughs, sputtering indignantly when Louis laughs too: When he was little, he wanted to be a rock star and would run around the house singing along to the radio and pretending to be Mick Jagger ("You fucking look like him too, what the hell, was tiny Harry a prophet or something?") But then he picked up a violin and just....never looked back. It's been years now, he says, with a wistful look on his face that Louis is definitely not admiring. Louis is definitely not admiring that, or the way he talks with his hands when he gets very excited (which seems to be always where music is involved). Louis is definitely not admiring the manic, overjoyed grin he's sporting, or the sparkle in those green green eyes of his, or the way his hair gets messier and messier the longer they talk (Harry runs his hands through it, you see. It's a perfectly normal observation, and not at all a fixation of Louis'). 

They talk, and an hour slips by. And then another. Suddenly, they've been on this hellhole of a plane for over four hours, and Louis is only a _little_ focused on the way his feet are going numb. He's going to pretend this isn't a dramatic difference from his usual flights, where he's antsy and ready to run screaming from the plane after hour two. Instead, he's leaning slightly forward in his seat, sharing breathing space with a mysterious green-eyed stranger (except he's not a stranger anymore, really), and he's barely been bored for hours.

It's all going a little _too_ well, naturally, so Louis has this realization just as the lights drop. Suddenly it's fully dark in the plane, just a little light emanating from the strip lights in the aisles. Somehow the cabin crew still hasn't gotten the memo about the not-sleeping-because-brain-fuck-ups thing. It seems that neither has Harry, because all of a sudden he's leaning back in his seat with shut eyes. 

"Uh, you don't wanna do that, Haz." 

The man in question cracks an eye open but otherwise doesn't move. "And why is that?"

"There's a 5 hour time difference. It's, like, 10 in New York right now. If you sleep, you'll be wired tonight and it'll fuck up your brain for however long you're there. Jet lag is a bitch."

Slowly, Harry's mouth quirks up at one side. "Well, in that case..." and he sits back up.

So Louis and Harry promise each other not to fall asleep, for the good of their brains. It's mutual, they've decided, that they've got someone to answer to and keep them up. Also coffee (for Harry). All he has to do is blink those green doe eyes at a flight attendant, and they're tripping over themselves to bring him whatever he wants (even if its not strictly allowed).

Louis refuses to drink the coffee, electing to instead watch a movie. Or rather, try. It ends instead with Louis sleepily blinking, head against the window, doing his best to keep his eyes open for more than a second or two. _It's all about the blinking,_ he tells himself. _Just can't let them get sticky. Avoid the long ones..._ And of course, there's Harry, chipper as anything, poking him in the head and stealing his pillows. _Goddamn, commitment._ "I just wanna rest my eyesssss" he moans, not caring how loud he is or how petulant he sounds. He is exhausted, damn it, and there's no good reason why he shouldn't sleep. 

And then a head drops on his shoulder, saying "I'll buy you coffee when we land if you stay awake." Okay, so there is a reason. A really damn good reason. Harry is good at this manipulating thing.

"Sold." Harry's head is gone before Louis has really process that particular part of this situation, just a ghost of the warmth left sinking into his jacket. Louis is _not_ focusing on how nice Harry smells, he is _not._ That's just fucking weird. 

His brain is now far too alert to drift off. So Louis gives up on sleeping, and grabs his laptop instead. It takes some clambering over people to get out into the aisle (don't ask him how he tackled the problem in re: Harry and personal space and climbing. He probably wouldn't be able to tell you, he's so wiped out that the embarrassment just flew right by him). And then he has to endure some exasperated sighing from Survivalist Guy as he retrieves his computer, clambers back over, and starts composing emails to send when he lands. In 5ish hours. (Fuck).

This is when Harry, the fucking traitor, falls asleep. His head's leaned back, mouth slightly open, eyes shut and flickering slightly under his eyelids. Louis' vengeful side immediately insists he be woken up; he did it to Louis, too, so why shouldn't he suffer? The sympathetic side of him insists that so long as it's just for a little while, it should be fine. In truth, Harry looks just as exhausted as Louis feels, and it would be a shame to disturb him (Louis knows he would murder whoever woke him if he fell asleep). It won't mess him up too badly to take a short nap...people take naps all the time. 

So Louis lets him sleep, for just a little while. It's much quieter without him and Harry chattering away, and he's not sure if he likes it. But it does let him focus more, and he get three or four emails fired off to the higher-ups before things go weird very quickly. The flight hits some turbulence, jostling the plane side to side. It's not very dramatic, just enough to make the seatbelt sign flicker on with an amplified _ding._ Louis closes his laptop rather quickly; he doesn't usually get motion sickness, but he doesn't wanna test it by reading during turbulence. A particularly dramatic jolt, and Harry's sliding across his seat (still asleep) to rest against Louis' shoulder. 

 _Um. Okay._ Louis isn't really sure how to process this. Standard etiquette dictates he be at least a little weirded out by this, and he is, to an extent. Really, he's more focused on how embarrassed Harry'll feel when he wakes up like that. _Should I wake him up? Push him back over? Leave it?_ Each option has its pros and cons. As far as leaving him goes; Harry is warm, like a space heater or a furnace right next to Louis. And these flights get cold. 

More realistically, Louis barely knows Harry. He knows a fair bit about him, sure, but he doesn't _know him personally._ That's not to say he doesn't want to know him better, but this might not be the way to go. There's nothing like accidentally falling asleep on someone to make things weird. He's got lifetime friends who he wouldn't let sleep on him like this. Liam would probably get whacked upside the head for trying. Louis knows he really shouldn't be this comfortable around a virtual stranger. 

It's this thought more than actual discomfort that leads him to gently prod Harry in the shoulder. In truth, he'd like nothing more than to keep the warm, solid weight pressed against his side, fighting off the chill of the plane. IN some faraway fantasy land where Harry and Louis didn't meet just that morning, Louis leans further into Harry, tucks his head into the joint between his head and his collarbone, and dozes off. It's a nice dream, rather broken by the reality of Harry pulling back, guilt flaring in sleepy eyes. 

Louis breaks off what is sure to be a round of guilt-laced apologies, going for a light and teasing tone. "Now you owe me, like, double coffee. You should be ashamed," Harry flinches, and Louis can't have that so he continues "making me stay awake only to use me as a pillow? A commendable master plan, but manipulative nonetheless."

Harry offers a slow, drowsy smile. "...Oops?"

"Damn right."

* * *

 

Hour seven of the flight sees Louis about ready to claw his own eyes out with boredom and Harry watching a movie. Louis maintains that it's his ever-growing jet lag and drowsiness that's making him restless, not the lack of interaction. He's a professional. He does this all the time. 

He starts playing a game with himself, counting the number of green things within his line of sight. He gets to 34 (and a strong three minutes of considering Harry's eyes to decide exactly what colour they are) before he relents. Blue gives him an extra three minutes and 45 items, and then he's officially bored again.

He winds up fixated on Harry's screen, too apathetic to turn anything on himself. 

He spends a good while watching the electric light play over the planes and angles of Harry's face, the way it lights his eyes and paints shadows under his cheekbones. A captivating sight, truly, but in his restless and ignored state, Louis' attention span has taken a beating. He turns instead to the actual movie screen, hoping he can watch long. It takes a second to place what exactly the movie is, but eventually he gets it. There's Ryan Gosling, and a rowboat, and some old fashioned clothing. Not a lot of movies fit that description, and after seeing the iconic kiss, he's got it nailed down. Is.....is Harry watching the Notebook? (Louis loved this movie, has always been a sucker for romcoms, and the story line has him in fits half the time. It sits somewhere in his top 20 movies, alongside Grease and the Avengers). 

Look, Louis does his best not to be judgmental  He doesn't like stereotyping people, and he doesn't like people stereotyping him. All he's saying is...he's not met a lot of straight men who will watch romcoms. Especially without the coercion of a gay friend or girlfriends  It's just kind of how it goes. (God knows he's tried to get Liam to watch the notebook with him once or twice and failed miserably each time). Lima had this girlfriend once, Sophia, who was the absolute _best_ to watch movies with. Louis doesn't think he's ever seen Liam agree to the princess bride so fast. Or since. So, you know, Louis maintains an open mind here, but he can't ignore the flickery hope that blossoms in his chest the more he watches.

More than that, Louis notices Harry watching the movie. His face is all soft and gushy, he winces whenever anything embarrassing happens, and he's got tears threatening to spill over for the entire last scene. It's not much of a surprise when Harry cries at the ending. Louis cannot blame him at all, his own eyes are a little wet. But once again, he feels that little sparkly hopeful bit in him grow. He thinks of the promised coffee at the end of this flight  and the fact that they both live in London, and how beautiful Harry is, and...well.

* * *

 9 hours, two massive carry-ons, a booking snafu and one hell of a plane journey later, they land at La Guardia airport in New York. The wheels have barely touched the tarmac and Louis is already leaning forward, stretching his arms as much as he possibly can in the confined space. He narrowly avoids hitting Harry in the face. Harry, good natured as ever, just smiles sleepily and yawns. _Fucking_ _adorable._

The thought comes unbidden, a result of too little sleep and too much proximity to a hot guy. Louis has given up on censoring these thoughts; there are too many and he's too tired to bother. He can blame the delirium on the jet lag later when he's actually fully conscious. For now, he can't be responsible for anything that comes out of his mouth.  

The wait to disembark is exhausting. Louis can barely stand without craning his neck underneath these low-hanging cabins, and all he wants to do is run and be free and stand straight and stretch. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently so. Harold, the lazy sod, is also no help. He seems to be one of those lethargic people on planes, saying irritating things like "The doors aren't even open yet, Louis. Sit back down." Buzz kill. 

When the people finally start clearing off the plane, Louis feels like he could vibrate right out of his skin. He's always astonished by how much energy he builds up on these flights; underneath the dead exhausted feeling weighing down his bones, he feels like he wants to run a marathon (or at least all the way to his taxi). Harry seems to have no such inclinations; he's ambling along behind Louis, stifling a yawn behind a sweater sleeve. The sweater was put on somewhere around hour five; it's lilac and soft-looking and Louis wants to steal the sweater and cuddle him. Add to this the violin slung over his shoulder? Louis has far too many adjectives bouncing around his brain to properly pin Harry to one. _Hot cute artistic soft adorable sexy_ play on an endless loop in his brain; he sorts and discards one after another, trying to puzzle it out. 

The shuffle/amble/walk far too slowly through passport checks and customs, yawning sleepily as they go. It's all long and torturous and slow, dragging endlessly and extending the time between Louis and his bed. It's unacceptable, unavoidable, and unbearable. They trudge down too many white-tiled hallways or through rooms with ugly carpeting, brains fried to the point of feeling like mush. Louis would probably A) get lost somewhere or B) literally fall asleep standing up if it weren't for lilac sweaters and chocolate curls to trail after. 

On that note, Louis decides he's pissed (again). Who in the fuck has the right to step off a plane looking that good? He knows he looks pretty terrible, hair askew and hanging limply across his forehead, horrendous bags under his eyes and skin a little too pale. He looks like any ordinary human after 9 hours in a confined pressurized space. (Airplanes are literally the most unnatural environment ever to exist--Louis hates it). But nooooo, Harry looks the same as he did when he stepped on the plane, curls shiny and neatly arranged, smile radiant and invigorating. Instead of looking weighed down by his bag and violin case, he just looks artful. (Louis might be a little biased. It's fine. It's all fine). 

They make it to the baggage claim, no bags on the carousel yet. One lonely suitcase spins around and around, left over from a previous flight. The 200-odd passengers from their flight all start to congregate around the belt, looking similarly dead-eyed and ready to fall over. A few minutes trickle by, no suitcases appearing, and Louis' restlessness picks back up again. He casts his eyes around for something, anything to pay attention to other than the endlessly rotating grey steel. He can just make out a weird shape, way at the end of the hall, stuck behind some kind of rope. 

Without preamble, he grabs Harry's hand, gently murmuring "Haz, look" and starts walking. It seems to work, as Harry follows silently, no complaint voiced. 

At the other end of the hall stands a white grand piano, enclosed on three sides by velvet ropes. Next to it is a sign which reads "play me!" Louis vaguely remembers reading about this somewhere, how airports are starting to put in pianos as a way for the musically gifted passengers to entertain the others or express themselves or something. he remembers reading it and scoffing, wondering who in their right mind would think about music after stepping off a plane and feeling like death. Now, though, he just turns to Harry. Harry would have a better opinion on this than he ever could. 

Louis is in the middle, literally in the middle of saying "damn shame that's the wrong instrument" and nudging Harry in the side when Harry puts his violin case down, drops his bags, and apropos of nothing sits at the piano bench. Louis catches the tail end of a grin that looks something like amusement and relish, and then "Watch this, Lou" floats over to him, and he doesn't really know how to respond to that, if he's being honest. Luckily he doesn't have to. He barely has time to swallow the rest of his sentence and absorb the fact that yeah, okay, Harry can play piano too, why not, before Harry starts to play. And Louis starts seriously questioning everything he's ever known because why on earth is classical music suddenly hot to him? Why is everything hot? Why is he hot? Oh, yeah, because there's a fucking precious beanpole of a human playing piano at him. For him? Both? Everything is confusing. Louis really really doesn't understand music. 

It lasts for some time, Harry playing piano and smiling gently over the keys, never looking up while playing. He cycles through a few genres, sometimes blurring the end of one slow song into something faster, more intense. Louis doesn't take a picture or a video, like some around him are doing (though he thinks he probably wants to catalogue this moment for eternity in his head) but instead remains fully transfixed on Harry. He's never really seen so much pure passion put into something. It looks like he's lit from within, practically glowing, eclipsing everything else in this dingy airport arrival hall. It brings Louis back to Sixth Form, sprinting around a football pitch. Or Year 10, centre stage, just after the curtain dropped. Or that one time with Niall he's never told anyone about; Ni strumming a guitar and him singing along softly, oh so softly so no-one could overhear.

It's not until the last song, when Harry starts to sing, that Louis starts wondering if sitting down himself might be a good idea. He's not sure, and if pressed he would certainly blame it on the jet lag, but there are probably tears tracking their way down his face about now. It's just so....overwhelming. Louis knows full well that Harry probably just picked this song because he knows how to play it well, that he's putting on a performance for lots of people in this crowded room, not just Louis. But it still feels intimate and personal, especially when Harry glances up for just a moment, mouth forming a soft smile that's directed right at Louis. Louis definitely needs to sit down. 

He sinks into a chair, feeling vaguely like he's floating, or been run over, or both. Eventually the song ends, the last echoes of Harry's gorgeous voice bouncing off the walls. Harry comes over, beaming and bubbly and so so happy. "What did you think?" 

There are about 5000 things Louis wants to say, all ricocheting off the insides of his head and vying for attention. He wants to tell Harry how glorious that was, how happy he was to get to experience. He wants to tell Harry how talented he is and how good it is that he never gave up on his dreams. He also wants to drag Harry into the nearest bathroom and fucking wreck him, but that's neither here nor there. Louis just doesn't know how to process, he's so flabbergasted. Not only does the hot violinist who seems to like him play two instruments, but he does it damn well, and fuck Louis might be jet lagged but he's also willing to accept he finds it fascinating. What he winds up croaking out is "Go out with me."

Harry looks momentarily taken aback, but recovers quickly. Before Louis even has time to be concerned about it or regret the words or wish them back, he asks "Isn't that a little forward? I've only known you nine hours, after all." He's smiling coyly, and Louis knows it'll be okay. 

"I've had you breathing down my neck for the last nine hours. Very few things are forward at this point." 

"Fair," Harry concedes, wrinkling his nose. It's adorable. Louis wants to kiss it. 

To distract himself from this fact, he stands up and walks over to where Harry stands. He doesn't hesitate before slinging an arm around his shoulders (it's irritating; he has to go on tiptoes to get high enough), saying "Remember that coffee you promised me? Time to pay up, Styles." They both know this airport; they're aware that they've got at least 15 minutes before they should even bother going to the baggage claim. 

Harry doesn't bother protesting, just smiles easily and says "Sure," gesturing in front of him to indicate Louis should lead the way.

This is a difficult decision. Does Louis go with the generic, chain-store coffee that he knows will be disgusting but at least have some options? Does he pick some obscure hipster thing that would probably (maybe) appeal to Harry? Does he just admit that he hates coffee and let Harry pick? Option three seems like the least likely to end in disaster, so naturally he ignores it completely in favour of going "follow along, young Harold!" and striding confidently towards the closest coffee-ish place. 

Louis nabs them a table near the back, settling his bags under the seat while Harry grabs them both coffee. To be honest, Louis isn't really sure where he's going with this or what he expects out of it. All he knows is that he's really fond of this boy, and as much as he hates flying, he's really glad he wound up on a plane next to him. Wherever Harry goes with this, Louis decides he'll follow. 

Harry ambles over, and Louis has to duck his head, realizing that he's looking at Harry far too mushily for someone he met a few hours ago. When he looks back up, Harry is sitting in front of him, gently prodding a coffee cup over the tabletop, giant grin on his face. 

Louis is immediately suspicious. This is the same boy who tried to make Louis eat his plane food three hours ago when he thought it was too gross to be real. Harry and food-related things are not to be trusted. "What? What is it?"

Harry's grin, if possible, grows even larger. "I got my favourite. I'm sure you'll like it." Louis' stomach sinks a little bit. He has never, ever in his life, liked a coffee drink. It's too bitter and unhappy to be something he enjoys, even with a fuckton of sugar in it. But Harry's smile is so earnest, his face so open and sweet that Louis can't possibly deny him. He picks up the cup, slowly. Harry eyes him the whole way, and Louis is really hoping that Harry goes to take a drink in the next three seconds so that he can somehow dump the cup out, magically replace it with tea. 

No such luck. Louis takes a sip, and of course. Harry is the type of person to smother the gross-bitter taste of coffee with massive amounts of sugar, leaving behind a sickeningly sweet drink with the unhappy bitter taste just lurking in the background. Then throw in some chocolate on top? A flavour mess. It suits Harry, naturally; amazingly sweet. But Louis just can't do it. He does his best; swallows the sip down as quickly as possible, composing his disgusted features into something resembling a serene smile. He slams the cup down on the tabletop, sloshing some liquid over his hand. "Delicious," he proclaims loudly, drawing a few weird looks. He's almost positive Harry won't believe him; his chest is heaving slightly. All he knows? No way in hell is he picking that fucking cup up again. 

A small wrinkle forms between Harry's brows. He's not too upset, not really. Louis can tell, he's an expert in Harry's face by now. (He hopes). "You didn't like it." It's not a question. 

Louis' heart drops to somewhere around his boots. He tries to come up with some justification that doesn't sound insensitive or terrible or just generally make him seem like a horrible human being. What he settles on is "Dude, I really fucking hate coffee." It's the truth, so. 

Harry, surprisingly, bursts out laughing. It's kind of a twist for Louis; he was expecting to make some excuses and gently get up to leave, abandoning whatever might've remained of this moment in the wake of a bad drink. But somehow Harry finds his random character flaw to be funny, or maybe endearing?

He can hope. When Harry calms back down, he asks "Why didn't you say anything?" Louis is perceptive to pick up the slight note of hurt in his voice. 

"You were so enthusiastic about it, it was kind of cute." This is embarrassing. This is so embarrassing. Louis is going to burst into flames right here and now, or die of mortification. Can he possibly sound any more whipped over this boy? 

Harry's voice is slow, methodical. Almost like he's puzzling something out. "So...you were willing to drink something you knew you'd hate just because I wanted you to?" Harry ducks his head, and Louis can see the flush crawling its way up the back of his neck. He sounds almost...flattered? 

"Basically, yeah." There's no point lying; Harry can probably already tell how hopelessly endeared by him Louis is.

Harry flushes bright red, shooting Louis a bashful grin over the rim of his coffee.

 

Louis gets up.

 

Without looking back at Harry, he dumps the coffee in a bin, walks to the counter, and returns a minute later with a cup full of tea. 

Harry is red in the face from laughing when Louis sits back down. 

* * *

Harry and Louis leave the airport and go their separate ways with the promise to meet again, each other's phone numbers programmed into their phones. The last thing Louis says when they hug goodbye is "That coffee disaster wasn't the date. I'm taking you on a real one, soon." 

Harry's happy grin is blinding. Louis is so glad his seat was double-booked. 

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE HUGE HUGE thanks to my betas, [Sammy](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/britpickerhl)  
> [Serena](http://tempolarriefix.tumblr.com/) , and  
> [thoughtlessblogger](http://thoughtlessblogger.tumblr.com/%22)
> 
> they're all amazing and they helped me so much to get this fic up off the ground and out of my head. They also put up with me rambling about pianos at 2am. So, massive kudos to them. 
> 
> (I'm totally planning on a chapter 2. I also don't hate violas. Sorry. viola players!) 
> 
> As always, leave a comment or kudos if you liked it!


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